The Kingly Divide
by YFWE
Summary: In the divide, little can be heard on most days. It is tempered and calm, save for the swaying of sparse trees and the occasional living creature. Each day seems as stagnant as the last. Life goes on.


**The Kingly Divide**

In the divide, little can be heard on most days. It is tempered and calm, save for the swaying of sparse trees and the occasional living creature. Each day seems as stagnant as the last. Life goes on.

The divide is expansive, with towering stone walls that, from their lowest point, appear to stretch to the sky. At its peak, looking out over the expanse is like staring into a crack in the dusty savanna ground magnified from countless moons of wear and decay, or as though a being from the depths of the land rose from its earthly residence to roam the plains. As though Aiheu, the god of the land, thought it good to shape the ground so, creating an imposing visage in an otherwise monotonous terrain.

Once, a regal river roared through the divide. Its waters flowed with a well-to-do pace, shaping the gorge that stands today with calculated, but persistent, ministrations. With enough rainfall, the river could return. But of course, enough rainfall could do many things for the Pride Lands.

Wildebeest herds normally roam near the divide, grazing idly along its edges, at times just paces away from certain death. Often, there is no other way to go but down, down into the gorge, over its entrance and into the depths below. Prey has been captured this way by sly, hungry predators who enjoy the ability to pack their victims into one area.

Death lingers in the divide. Despite its outward appearance of a mostly tranquil passage, a cloud of despair looms over the place. It has been there many times before, with impassioned family members grieving life lost in an unforgiving terrain. Or one might notice the scarcity of life inside the microcosm, with even the plant life struggling to survive.

Today, in the middle of the kingly divide, sits a king.

The king is not a king in the metaphorical sense, like a protruding topmost rock or crownlike object might be, nor is the king an unspoken king, a ruler sans a title, a king without a crown. The king is, or was, a ruler of the land in which the divide lay. The king of the Pride Lands.

But now he is as motionless as the scene around him. There is no breeze in the air and the trees remain unmoved. A cloud of dust swirls effortlessly amid the valley, floating up, up and away.

The dust cloud betrays the divide. It stretches farther than the eye can see, down the steep decline into the gorge and away into the distance, where the expansive tails off into an average plain. Wind could have created the dust, but there is none. A massive being or group of beings could have; however, no sign of these exists, neither a hole from which the aforementioned great beast could have risen nor any solitary figure, save the king.

But no one can save the king, for the king is dead.

Gazing onto the divide at that moment, one would not have known of the king's death; perhaps the figure in the gorge, whatever it was, was merely asleep in the sun's warm rays. One would not have known, unless aware of the land's denizens and hierarchy, that the king was a lion named Mufasa, who resided at the enormous edifice known as Pride Rock nearby.

Mufasa had been to the divide before. In fact, he was a regular visitor, spending days in the gorge admiring its inherent, rough beauty, monitoring its goings-on. The king was typified as a wise, just ruler who knew his kingdom and that which happened within. He recognized his responsibilities meant traveling to the crack in the earth's surface, regardless of its perilous reputation as a land of death and decay.

However, it had not been a day on which the king planned to enter the domain. More recently, his time was spent with his offspring, the prince, Aiheu bless his soul. The king did not want to introduce the prince to the harrowing gash just yet, saving it for a time when Simba was strong, mature and cognizant of the fact that life, despite its misgivings, goes on.

In the kingly divide sits a king, a king of kings, a soldier of the almighty. Beside him, learning his father's postponed lesson far too early, is that very prince.

He can be seen, but only if one squints or is keenly aware of even the slightest movement within the divide. He is there, and yet he is not there, lilting between the realization of the situation and firm denial, one moment within his body and the other floating above it, separated from existence itself.

In mere moments, another figure approaches the scene, words are exchanged, tears shed, fleeting looks made to the lip of the gorge above them, from which the king has fallen. Soon the prince darts from view, chased by those who wish ill on the king and, too, hope such on the prince.

The divide is left with but two individuals: the fallen king and his brother who, he learns, shall become the new ruler of the land. The king is dead. Long live the king!

But the divide will not receive its frequent visits from His Majesty, slipping and sliding into a state much like the lands around it shall soon as well. The wildebeest that graze nearby will leave and the vegetation, what little had survived in even the harshest of conditions, will falter.

Later there is nothing but the old king. He is flanked by intermittent scavengers who wish to steal away the last remnants of life from his body so that they and their children can remain nourished - the gods be good and gracious, the divide cruel but kind.

Soon the day will fade into obscurity. Few will tell the tale of the divide aside from what is seen by the eye in that instant: a gorge stands where a regal river once flowed, a kingly divide of stone whose walls appear to stretch to the sky.

Life goes on.


End file.
